Between Two Words - Ep 1 - First Contact

The Tapes

Jan 31, 2026

Sometimes it feels easier to speak than to write.

These messages travelled thousands of miles on tape, carrying a friendship that began at university, and continued even as lives moved elsewhere.

A small note: transcripts were never perfect then.

The words below follow what was recorded, but the audio sometimes wanders — a pause added, a phrase expanded, a thought finding its way aloud.

If you can, listen and read. They don’t always say exactly the same thing.

Dear Harold,

It seems like only yesterday that I was in London at University. I don’t regret my decision to come home. Teachers are so badly needed here in Hong Kong, and I must confess, I truly did miss my country.

I missed the cobblestone back lanes, tea houses, the aunties gossiping in the park. I missed my parents and my home. Most of all, my room, my sanctuary, the east facing window and waking up with the sun.

I thought of these things daily with such a sorrowful longing, quite pathetic actually. Now, I find myself home again, thinking of all the things I miss from London.

I’ve settled into my parents’ home, my old bedroom. I received a post at a local elementary school where I teach English and mathematics. I don’t particularly like teaching mathematics. It was never my strong suit, but as I said before, we are in desperate need of teachers here.

The streets have an air of quiet about them lately, curfew is being enforced more vigorously. Times are hard, people are less conversational, if you understand what I mean. Although many places have shortages, the shops here are very full with British items so if I do get nostalgic for London, I can always go and buy a crumpets or a scone. The prices are quite ridiculous, though, and that always gives me pause.

The weather has been nice. We haven’t had much rain. Not like London, where the sky always weeps. The ocean being so close you can almost feel as if the planet is at your fingertips and you can be washed away to distant shores at any moment.

Well, I must be going. I only stole a few moments on the school dictaphone to be able to send you this message. I hope it reaches you. I hope you are well. I worry about you, your health, your situation. Please let me know how you’re doing.

Fondest regards,

Emily

Oh bugger.
What’s happened now?
That should have started it.
Bloody new devices.

Ahh. Here we go…

Hello Dearest Emily,

Firstly, this is one of the first times I have used a device such as this,
What is it?
Ahh, a dictaphone.
What has the world come to these days….

Ohhh. Sorry, my dear, I digress.

How are you these days?

It feels like last semester was only days ago, but I know it to be longer by the length of the days.

I remember those cobbled streets you mention, and the smell of tea in the air still lingers in my mind. The pull of home is strong for all of us, and the decision you made feels like the right choice. Yet that does not mean your presence isn’t missed here.

When I heard your voice on the dictaphone, it was honestly a surprise, even shock to hear you so realistic, as if you were standing by my side here in this room.

Yet, I did laugh out loud when you mentioned you are teaching mathematics.
I know how much you disliked in the learning of it, and imagine you are balancing your need to do the duty for your country, with this task.

It’s so nice to hear you settled into your parents’ house and with your new job, and I’m sure you love waking to the sunrise every morning there.

We have heard things aren’t quite the same there these days. Those normal tasks feel like they take just that bit longer, like the air is heavy with something.

Things are moving on well here. I am still in the same position, with the eternal promise of a promotion and pay rise “next semester” always on the horizon. Yet, I like the classes and students. Teaching here reminds me of my times there in Hong Kong. The conversations, the different sense of humour and respect — something that seems sadly on the decline here.
My health is good. It is fine.
The food is not the same since you left. Even my culinary skills cannot match yours.

But it is the weather here that gets me down. There is a grey smog that has a grip over the london city and never lets go. We know this can’t be good for us, but we have no choice.

Your mention of the weather there sounds truly remarkable and something that takes my mind away from these grey smoggy clouds hanging over London.

I must be going now.
I trust your parents are keeping you well and this message reaches you in good condition.

Yours,
Harold

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